On His Deathbed, Larry Linville Made Alan Alda Promise Just One Thing… And It Was Pure Frank Burns 

Larry Linville was 60 years old.

Stage IV lung cancer.

The man America loved to hate — Frank Burns — was running out of time.

He picked up the phone.

He called Alan Alda.

“Alan… I have a favor.”

Alan came to the hospital.

Sat beside the bed.

Larry looked thinner. Smaller. But his eyes still had that spark — that Frank Burns indignation ready to explode at any moment.

“What do you need?” Alan asked.

“When I die,” Larry said calmly, “I want you to speak at my funeral.”

“Of course. I’ll write something beautiful—”

Larry shook his head.

“No speeches. No long stories.”

“Just one sentence.”

Alan waited.

Larry smiled.

That crooked, self-important, slightly ridiculous Frank Burns smile.

“When you get up there… just say: ‘Frank Burns eats worms.’”

Alan stared at him.

Then laughed.

Then cried.

“You’re serious?”

“Completely,” Larry said. “For five years, America hated Frank Burns. But they loved hating him. That’s the gift.”

He took a slow breath.

“I want them to remember… it was always a joke. And I was in on it.”

On April 10, 2000, Larry Linville passed away.

At the memorial service, Alan Alda stood up.

No long tribute.

No dramatic monologue.

Just one line.

“Frank Burns eats worms.”

The room burst into laughter.

Through tears.

Because that was Larry.

He never asked to be the hero.

He never needed applause.

He played the fool.

He played the villain.

He let the audience boo him every week on M*A*S*H…

So everyone else could shine.

And in the end, he chose to leave the world the same way Frank Burns entered it—

With a punchline.

Not tragic.

Not heavy.

Just one last joke.

And somehow…
 It was perfect.

Here is the continuation of the story, bringing this poignant and funny tribute to a beautiful close:

The laughter in the room didn’t fade quickly.

It echoed off the walls, wrapping around the surviving members of the 4077th like a warm, familiar blanket.

Loretta Swit wiped her eyes, shaking her head at the sheer, brilliant absurdity of it all.
Mike Farrell smiled a quiet, knowing smile.
Gary Burghoff let out a soft, genuine chuckle.

Because in that single, ridiculous sentence, Larry had given them all one final gift.

He had given them permission to smile through their grief.

Hollywood is a town built entirely on egos.
Actors spend their whole lives fighting for the best lighting, the heroic monologue, or the final tearful goodbye that guarantees an award.

But Larry Linville never cared about any of that.

He was a classically trained, highly intelligent actor who happily chose to be the punching bag.
He understood that for a brilliant joke to land, someone has to be the target.
He knew that for the anti-war rebellion of Hawkeye and Trapper to mean anything, they needed a rigid, foolish wall of blind authority to push against.

Larry built that wall.
And then he gladly let them tear it down, week after week.

When Alan Alda walked off the podium and sat back down, the true weight of the moment settled over everyone present.

They weren’t just saying goodbye to a dear friend.
They were saying goodbye to the bravest kind of artist.

The kind who willingly takes the insults, the sneers, and the collective ridicule of a television audience…
And turns it into pure, unforgettable magic.

Frank Burns might have eaten worms.

But Larry Linville fed the soul of the greatest comedy in television history.

And for that, the 4077th—and the rest of the world—will love him forever.